The River II

The lines of silence
stretch at my feet - the
hands I hold, the
faces I greet, and the
world seems an ugly place
unenlightened, not neat,
and as I walk out of
my small house each day
I thole it, say
nothing of grief, of
walking, the walking feet who
stay with you
part of the way, then
leave, they never
teach you that - that
life is a river flowing
and it never re-touches
the banks that it meets.
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